THE PENNINE WAY

JUNE 10th-JUNE 26th 2007

THIS IS A TALE OF A LONG WALK WITH STANLEY AND WET FEET, BUT FIRST A BIT OF BACKGROUND. LETS GO BACK, BACK, BACK IN TIME TO 1988......

...I trudged up this long yomp way back in April 1986. I foolishly thought that April would be a month blessed with warm spring sunshine and loveliness, wrong. Winter hung doggedly on for the duration of the walk, it rain, snowed and blew gales almost incessantly. My intention was to camp out each night but foul weather forced me into pubs and B & B's on all but two nights, plus a night at my Uncle Keith's in Gargrave.
Such were the rotten conditions I was ready to quit after the first day, I phoned my Dad from Crowden, I'd had enough after crossing Kinder Scout and Bleaklow in atrotious weather. He duly picked me up for a night of cozy luxury at the parental home. That evening he appealed to my spirit of adventure and persuaded me not to give up at the first hurdle. The following morning I was sitting in the car once again being driven back to Crowden, accompanied by our fondly remembered dog Max. The deal was that I'd take the dog for a walk in exchange for another lift home once I'd got to The white House pub on the A58 Rochdale road. It's a deal. A day of heavy driving snow and ferocious winds, tough going but worth it for the promise of another evening of central heating, Mum's home cooking and a warm bed. The following day and another lift out with father. 'You're on your own now son' were his parting words. Giving up again would be unthinkable, he'd put in some driving hours and engaged his powers of persuasion to get me to the start of my third day. I guess both Mum and Dad didn't really want a dripping, muddy child for a third night on the bounce. With this in mind I set my sights on Kirk Yetholm and 13 days later arrived in said place with trench foot and a dripping unpitched tent (apart from a night's camping at Middleton in Teesdale) where I was met by brother Daniel and friend Andrew for beers and a ride home. Along the route I kept meeting up with another lunatic whose name escapes me, also doing his walk solo with a tent and had to emergency bivuak on Cross Fell in a white-out, on that same day I had to retreat from the summit of Great Dunn Fell in heavy snow and walked around Cross Fell following the Maiden Way, another long distance path that heads vaguely in the right direction. Similarly, waist deep snow along the border fence over the Cheviot hills forced me to deviate from the official route on the final day.
The misery and hardship encountered all those years ago should have detered me from any foolish thoughts of doing it again, but..
Ever since April 1988 I've had this itch to repeat the whole crazy enterprise, but this time follow the official route. A purist might argue that despite walking between Edale and Kirk Yetholm, any deviation from 'the route' negates any claim to have walked the 'Pennine Way'. I would respond by saying 'well you try walking it with trench foot in a blizzard then smarty pants'. Despite being happy with my explanation, there's always been an element of unfinished business about it.
In May 2007 I gave up work for a while because there is more to life than work, and what better way to prove it than walking the Pennine Way? After all there is work on the one hand, and on the other there's going for a very long walk with wet feet.
I decided to walk north to south this time for 2 good reasons. Firstly, I have some friends (Matt and Jennifer) Jennifer's parents live near Gallashiels a few miles north of Kirk Yetholm. I could hitch a lift with them the next time they went visiting. Secondly, living in Pennine West Yorkshire it would be like walking home, giving me extra incentive to bat on when things become miserable (Oh boy, they will).
My preparations at home were complete, I’d bought Stanley some doggy panniers so he could help share the load. We went for a few practice walkies and he soon got the idea although they did curtail his squirrel chasing activities. I’d checked my tent for mildew and pegs, bought a new gas stove and bottles and bought a variety of yummy dried food and chocolate bars. I’d packed and re packed my rucksack but as always happens it seemed surprisingly heavy, a dead weight of uncomfortableness as it sat like a giant albatross on my back. How on earth was I going to get the thing down the 260 odd miles of the Pennine Way?
Spring 2007 started promisingly enough with an almost bone dry April with warm settled weather lasting for several weeks. The weather forecasters convinced me it wasn’t going to last and I hung on thinking the weather would be even better in the weeks to come. After all, summer 2007 was going to be a good one, wasn't it? Alas, as April changed to May so changed the weather, I declined numerous potential lifts to the borders as unsettled weather persisted.
At last, a break in the weather, Matt and Jennifer were primed for a parent visiting weekend in Gallashiels. Tea time on Friday 9th of June we were off, courtesy of a borrowed 4x4 Space Cruising Global Warming vehicle. 4 adults, 1 Stanley, 1 half ton rucksack, 2 infants plus the equipment and paraphernalia that 2 infants require for the weekend. Several hours of vrooming northwards at high speed saw us arrive safely just north of the border in Gallashiels.

10.06.07
My first night was spent in the warmth and comfort of Jennifer’s parent’s hoose, their impeccable hospitality included an evening meal, a bed and a cooked breakfast. After saying our goodbyes we were driven the 20 miles south to Kirk Yetholm, the sun was out and the approaching hills sparkled invitingly. The Border Hotel, terminus for northbound yompers was closed for refurbishment, much to the distress of a grizzled looking individual with a limp and the look of a man on the brink who staggered into view as I was pulling on my boots. 'Have you come all the way?’‘Yes’‘How was it, I’m just starting?’‘Bloody rough mate’ and off he hobbled muttering obscenities at the closed pub. I wanted to pick his brains about the adventure but quickly realized he didn't want company and he would attack me with his walking poles. Half an hour later I was togged up, and after bidding farewell to Matt and Jennifer we set off southwards in a direction indicated by our first Pennine Way sign post. The first thing we encountered when we hit open fellside was a ‘no dogs’ sign. For heaven’s sake! I pondered over this outrageous commandment for a while, was I going to give up after 300 yards? Get lost! We defiantly ignored it, but not before Stanley wee’d on it, good boy! We walked about 17 miles today over fairly moderate grassy hills alongside the border fence. Stanley trotted happily alongside as I got used to the weighty pack and gauged the comfort of my boots and general ability to propel myself along using heart, lung and muscle power. I was quite pleased with the results. Found 20p and saw a lizard. Much of the route was paved with large flagstones which provided a good firm walkway and without navigational difficulties when heavy mist descended by mid afternoon. Oh dear. At 1800 I searched for a suitable campsite but couldn’t find water. Following the Cheviot ridge line along the watershed, flowing streams were miles away in the valleys. The recent dry weather had ensured that most of the surface water had vanished. I eventually found a kettle-full in a drainage ditch near the summit of Mozie Law (552m) we pitched up on damp grassy tussocks as the mist swirled around. We had noodles for tea with a tin of Stanley's Butcher’s tripe mixed in, yum yum, delicious and nutritious. The brown coloured water was bitty with dead insects and gravel but I was hardly in a position to complain. At 2100 I texted Babs (me girlfriend) and was given the sad news that my Auntie Christine had died earlier in the day, it was expected but nonetheless a shock.The evening was spent in pensive mood as I prepared to spend my first night under canvas. I had a couple of Ibuprofens for supper to help ease all manner of aches and pains. Up here in the misty darkness, miles from anywhere could be somewhat spooky to the feint-hearted but I had Stanley to keep me safe from the mad axe man out there looking for his next victim, didn’t I?

11.06.07
Awoke to a snug and cosy tent but outside the same heavy wet mist was still hanging about like an unwanted party guest. There are probably terrific views from up here but I never found out. I had a lie-in whilst listening to The Archers omnibus till 1100 in the vain hope of a break in the clouds. Stanley lay on the wet grass and listened to the lovely Sky Lark song overhead (I never saw those either). After a third gritty coffee full of bits of grass, ants and spiders we broke camp, my bag seemed even heavier due to a wet tent. Oh, me shoulders. After some careful map and compass work we regained the border fence and once again strode southwards along more pavement. I tried out my new GPS only to discover that I’d downloaded the wrong map pages. Terrific. We would be a further 50miles south before we got onto it. I like the GPS technology but I was a complete novis with a dislike of over complicated instruction manuals (in American), plus I’m a traditionalist who prefers the good old fashioned mountain craft skills involving map and compass. The GPS went largely unused. Some of the walkers we encountered heading north were staring into them instead of watching where they were going. I firmly believe that the mobile phone and GPS have done little for hill walking health and safety issues. The going was hard on the slabs but we made good progress until after dinner when they were replaced by a soggy waterlogged path which soon seeped into my boots. The mist lifted to reveal a dreary monotonous countryside as the Cheviot Hills petered out and finally spluttered into oblivion at Byness. I bought a can of fizzy pop and we crossed the busy A68 to collapse on a patch of grass by the filling station. Felt in pain, everything hurt! midges soon came along to feast on my tender limbs so we trudged a further 2 miles past the official campsite which looked unappealing and full of caravans to find a lovely wild camping spot besides the River Rede. The weather cleared to a fine and warm evening, I bathed in the river and lit a fire to cook tea on, this is more like it! Taking stock, it had taken 2 days to cover 30 miles, things hurt, my bag felt like a sack of granite chippings biting into every pressure point of my poor shoulders and back. My boots were wet and annoying and the aerial had somehow snapped off the radio. So far so good then? Saw some frogs and heard a lot of artillery blasts from a nearby ‘danger area’, it’s good to know that 'our boys' still armed and dangerous, a surprise Russian attack could happen anytime soon. Problems: Stanley had dragged his bags through mud and water and they ain’t waterproof. The food department of my rucksack had turned into a gooey cake mix when a coffee container lid had come off and a bag of sultanas had split, the two had blended together. I tried to dry my gloves by the fire but they caught fire instead. Great.

12.06.07
Set off at 0930, a sunny, settled morning. We walked to Bellingham along: A, dreary forestry tracks B, pleasant heathery uplands and C, through pathless cattle fields. The sunshine was fierce, I must get a sun hat and some cream. Pain and suffering persisted with hips, ankles and left knee all giving me jip, I dosed up on Ibuprofen . Ace this long distant yomping, innit? Stanley disappeared into an impenetrable forest in hot pursuit of a red deer. Bad boy, he turned up 20 minutes later looking hot and disheveled. I put him on a lead and told him to behave. We saw a good few people out for a walk, many of whom were quite impressed by Stanley and his panniers, he posed for numerous photographs. Got a bit lost in the final approach into Bellingham which involved a bit of back-tracking and extra miles along a road. I felt grumpy. At Bellingham I bought dog food, milk and fruit. After crossing the North River Tyne we looked in vain for a wild camping spot and ended up at an over-tended and official looking campsite. I was charged £12 (yes, 12 blummin' quid!) for putting up my little tent on a small patch of neatly trimmed lawn surrounded by expensive looking caravans. Pastel coloured occupants twitched curtains for a while before settling down for an evening of television and chemical toilets. I was given a PIN number to access the bog block where, against camp rules, I gleefully nicked some bog roll, filled the kettle with hot water and rinsed out pongy socks. That’ll teach ‘em! Wolfed down a large tea of tuna and couscus with a squeeze of lemon juice.

13.06.07
Twelve blummin’ quid it cost me for a poor night’s kip. Somebody’s snoring was loud and incessant, I suspected it came from an overweight Dutch guy with an orange shirt and a wife who wore a hearing aid. I had to get up 3 times in the night to shoo off a raiding cat that kept trying to get into the bag of rubbish tucked under the tent fly sheet. Feeling tired and grumpy we limped back into town to buy suntan cream and an ankle bandage. My diary at this point states in a half joking manner, ‘probably won’t see the sun again’. Ha ha very funny! We had a long lingering breakfast which involved many trips to the bog block to pinch hot water for the kettle. The weather had turned overcast and it looked like rain. Great. It started pouring down 45 minutes after setting off. The walk to Hadrian’s Wall involved many miles of wet walking through water logged fields and dripping, oppressive conifer plantations. By tea time the rain had become torrential and I started to worry about where I could spend the night. Back in 1988 I had stayed at the twice Brewed Inn but the chances were they would not welcome dogs, especially ones dripping wet and filthy. When we finally got onto the wall I spotted some large stripy marquees in the distance, as we approached I could see they were empty and without hesitation decided to commandeer the green and white one with vertical stripes to pitch my tent in. There were tables and chairs which I used to full effect to drape dripping clothes and maps over. Within the hour I’d made myself comfortable as the rain roared it’s fury outside. It was a surreal evening and I thanked my good fortune. Discovering the marquee had saved me from a potential walk-abandoning night of misery. It was still damp and cold but at least we were out of the rain. A tent within a tent; neat. I was pleased that the old ankle, blister, hip and knee issues were getting no worse.

14.06.07
Packed up and departed by 0930. I kept imagining that large tattooed men would turn up early to take their tent down. I needn’t have worried, the rain hadn’t let up all night. A weird American couple turned up as I was eating a bread and cheesy breakfast, they seemed amused at the spectacle and insisted on taking many photographs of us in our unusual campsite. The intention was to get to Alston today where I would seek out a B & B to get out of the dreadful weather. With this goal in mind I strode forth, easily at first along the wall to Greenhead but then things got grim and distinctly miserable. The route was largely indistinct through some drab countryside, the over helpful P.W sign posts along the wall had disappeared (after all, it's impossible to get 'lost' walking along Hadrian's wall). I got cross with having to map read upside down and back to front, no wonder not many walk ‘down’ the Pennine Way, why does north have to be up anyway? I doggedly stuck to the official route. A lot of the big fields we crossed were full of livestock, the sheep pretended to be chased to the opposite side, whilst the cows pretended to chase us to the opposite side, all this activity often resulted in us being surrounded and outnumbered by herds and flocks of well known farmyard animals. The stile and escape route was usually not where it should have been so after waving my walking pole menacingly at the gathered throng we would wade through knee deep wet mud to find it. The stiles were often big and awkward, definitely not designed for backpackers with dogs. Getting Stanley over required some contortion and a new splatter of mud in the eye. By 1830 I’d had enough, Alston was still miles away so I pitched up in the corner of a sodden field. A wall gave me some protection from the cold wind and horizontal rain blowing up from the South Tyne valley below. It wasn’t an ideal campsite, every puddle of water seemed to have a dead rabbit in. How I longed for the luxury of the £12 campsite, the way I was feeling I would have happily paid more. Everything was wet, Stanley’s bags were waterlogged, his ground clearance was insufficient as he dragged them through mud and water. I’ll have to re-think the load carrying. Even my sleeping bag was wet, the plastic bag that I stowed it in had fist sized holes in it. This was a bad day, but after a tea of dead rabbit flavoured noodles with custard pudding followed by lots of sugary coffee I felt slightly better.

15.01.07
Despite the wretched little campsite and my general dampness I had a comfortable night with decent sleep. I lay around for a while hoping for blue sky and sunshine to magically appear. Yeah right. After a rabbit dung coffee we packed up our dripping belongings and walked the eight miles into Alston. The route seemed deliberately awkward as it skirted around three sides of flooded fields, through bramble bushes and nettle beds to avoid walking along a road for 25yards. How ridiculous. I’d long since given up trying to read my maps which were now just lumps of papery mash. Eventually I gave in to temptation and abandoned the Pennine Way in favour of the South Tyne Way which sensibly approached Alston along the side of a railway line. I know it was a bare faced cheat, however, I bet that most P.W yompers, when faced with pointless detours through sodden and pathless fields in foul weather end up on the railway line, so I’m not going to feel guilty about it. I waved at a little diesel powered ratty train full of steaming pensioners, nobody seemed to wave back. It was one of those sort of days. Although the walk involved wading through dripping shoulder high undergrowth (we couldn’t get any wetter) this was a luxuriant amble compared with the last few days of struggle. We dripped into Alston by 1400 and straight into a café for a lot of tea and buns. We then went shopping for plasters, map holder, new compass (the old one had committed suicide) dog food, bin bags (to put wet things in once they’d dried) and newspaper (to stuff into boots to assist the drying out process). I then left my bag and Stanley under the bandstand and searched for a dog friendly hostelry. This was hugely successful and 25 minutes later after washing Stanley’s muddy undercarriage in the river we’d checked into the Westmorland Hotel. £33 got me a large double room with T.V, on-sweet, and tea/coffee making apparatus. Oh the high life! Spent a while draping dripping things from every possible vantage point and gave the nice hotel lady a bag of wet clothes to put in her drier. We’d come 90 miles in 6 days, my diary says ‘…and not particularly enjoyable miles to be honest’. Went out for fish & chip supper and had a pint in the hotel bar.

16.06.07
The rain had lightened somewhat by morning but the weather forecast was for more of the same. Hmmm, so after a brief consultation with Stanley we decided to book in for another night. After a hearty breakfast we wandered around Alston as the rain began shuttering down. Went to café, read book, went to Coop, went to bakers, went to green grocers, went to another café, read paper, ate cheese, ate fruit, ate biscuits. Went to bank for cash as my debit card had bent and the money machine had refused to cough up the dosh then back to the hotel for a power nap. In the evening we walked down to the river, Alston looks very picturesque from the river, set high up on a bluff, the flood plain is sensibly a cricket pitch rather than a new housing estate (for now anyway) I rang home to send my love to the family, it’s Auntie Christine’s funeral today. Back in town the fire brigade were putting something out and all the townsfolk had gathered to watch. It wasn’t that exciting so I took a walk around Alston’s council estate suburbs where alco-popped-up youths hung around in clumps. Litter, abandoned settees fridges and T.V sets were piled up in gardens and on the road outside. What a bloody mess. Feeling somewhat disheartened I walked back to the Hotel via the fish & chip shop where more of the local yobbos were throwing bottles about under the bandstand. I’d had enough of Alston and was ready to hit the road again in the morning.

17.06.07
Breakfasted, packed up and checked out by 0930. The day of rest had dissolved the worst of my bodily discomfort. Disappointingly it was still raining but it seemed a lot warmer as we walked down to Carrigill alongside the swollen and fast flowing river. Giant stiles were numerous, each requiring some effort by both man and dog to overcome. Cross Fell next, feeling in good nick we climbed up this grand mountain past the levels, spoil heaps and shafts of abandoned lead mines, great place for industrial archeologists this. The rain stopped and the cloud base rose above the summits, impeccable timing for the high point of the entire yomp (2930'). It wasn’t to last, an hour later at the Great Dunn Fell summit radar station, whose eerie white globe kept appearing briefly through the clouds like a giant moon a cold rain began to fall. At Little Dunn Fell I spoke to a remarkably cheerful couple who were on their way up Cross Fell in Wellingtons, make-up and umbrellas, worryingly they were also clutching a GPS and mobile phones. They either died or were plucked off the mountain by helicopter later that day. Arrived in Dufton after tackling more ridiculous stiles and checked into the £5 campsite with free shower, I was the only person there. After a noodle tea we walked to the Stag Inn to escape the rain which was now falling lavishly. The pub was busy with diners, I got into a corner with Stanley curled up at my feet and drank numerous pints of Black Sheep. A waitress kept asking me if I wanted food, I must have looked malnourished as all around me tucked into platefuls of chicken nuggets and chips in a basket. I’d enjoyed coming over Cross Fell, it made a pleasant change to be on open mountain country. I soon tire of the field, stile and farmyard walking, give me moor and open fell any day of the week. The people opposite are just tucking into huge heaps of black forest gateau, bulging waistlines everywhere. I stick to Black Sheep and buy a fifth pint as the waitress brings in a bucketful of lard for the spheroid couple with matching turquoise cardigans. At 1030 staggering slightly we walk back to the campsite, what a surprise, it's still raining.

18.06.07
Drizzle. Midge bites on my eye. A nice couple staying in the caravan opposite have just come over with a bowl of Special K, God bless. It’s little acts of kindness like this that restore one’s faith in the human race.Today’s walk took me past Bow Hall where I’d stayed 21 years and 2 months ago. We climbed up to High Cup Nick, up and over some horizontal scars of black dolerite, a resistant rock that’s responsible for many of the interesting features of the northern Pennines. A bleak moor eventually lead to Cow Green reservoir where an infant River Tees squirts out of a pipe to cascade down the impressive black angular dolerite blocks of Cauldren Snout. At it’s base I met two fine looking Pennine Way lassies going North; damn and blast! We compared blisters and tales of woe then went our separate ways. The sun made a brief appearance then it started to rain. Oh give us a break! High Force was putting on a spectacular show but crowds of Sunday trippers swarmed around. We waded through their litter and stopped for a sit down and a Mars Bar at Low Force which was relatively quiet and litter free. The last few miles into Middleton were a bit of a toil, through cowy fields and puddles. Into the Coop to stock up on provisions and then to the campsite at the far side of town where the railway station was. I camped here 21 years and 2 months ago. Ate a massive tea and changed gas bottles. My feet looked weird, all white and shriveled with some pulsating blisters scattered liberally around, the midges soon spotted them so I dived into my sleeping bag. I had R.M.C (rucksack management and control) off to a fine art by now, I had a dry bagful of dryish clothes and a dry sleeping bag. The wet day clothes remained wet and stinky throughout. Pulling on wet socks and boots every morning became just part of the routine. 21 miles notable miles today, classic Whin Sill country, an igneous intrusion that has left it’s mark on a limestone and gritty sandstone landscape. (So endeth the geology lesson) I should sleep well tonight. We’ve reached the half way point by now and during an idle moment I imagined meeting myself coming the other way 21 years and 2 months ago. I would probably have encountered a determined fresh faced skinny youth with a tragic haircut and wet feet, who in turn would behold a world weary, slightly malnourished, haunted looking chap with a dodgy beard, a shaggy dog and wet feet. We’d have exchanged pleasantries then several hours later think the other was vaguely familiar.

19.01.07
Oh bother, I slept badly on account of nocturnal HGV’s going to and from nearby quarries. I’m astonished the locals allow this to happen. I thought about getting up at 0300 and sitting down in the road with a placard; ‘boo to night time HGV’s’ but my torch battery was flat and the thought of pulling on wet socks in the middle of the night was too grim to contemplate. It was a midgy start to the day, and whilst it wasn’t actually raining it looked as if it should have been. (This was the normal state of affairs) Today was tough going, mileage ground out across energy sapping terrain over a series of bleak, boggy moors and wet vales. We went underneath the insanely busy A66 via a handy underpass and had a picnic at Gods Bridge where the River Greta tumbles down between some attractive limestone outcrops. This was the scenic highlight of a largely forgettable day. The afternoon was spent doing battle with the dismal Slieghtholme Moor, an infamous sea of blanket bog and killing field for desperate long distant walkers. Exhausted, in mist and high winds I finally arrived at the Tan Hill Inn and managed to get my tent up in the lee of it’s gable end. 21 years ago I B & B'd here and remember some hefty snow drifts piled up against the walls. The menagerie of resident hungry ducks, geese, sheep and rabbits were keen to eat my tea, Stanley was keen to make a meal of them so an uneasy stand-off prevailed. Tan Hill Inn is famous for being the highest pub in the world and double glazing. More recently a legal spat has broken out regarding the use of the term ‘family feast’ to describe their Christmas menu. Apparently Kentucky Fried Chicken has global ownership of ‘family feast’, and was in the process of sueing Tan Hill for trade mark infringement. Sometimes I lose the will to live. The proprietors were welcoming and hospitable even though they were about to be snuffed out by multinational lardy junk food assassins. I spent a pleasant evening drinking copious volumes of ale sitting in front of a roaring fire surrounded by steaming socks. I had a bad moment when I spattered something crawling up the inside of my trouser leg thinking it was a wasp or clegg (you can’t be too careful about these things, can you?) imagine my horror when I shook a squashed beetle onto the floor (I like beetles). I felt wretched. The lady of the house has dried a few of my wettest garments in her magic machine for nothing, I also used their phone, and again, they refused payment. I had no option but to drink yet more of their ale. The BBC Weather forecast has just been on the telly, it was bad news, the synoptic chart indicated a whole series of beefy Atlantic depressions queuing up to deposit their rain into my boots. I have another pint with a whiskey chaser. I’m a wee bit inebriated and somebody asks if anyone can play the piano, I'm drunk enough to volunteer so I sit at the Tan Hill Inn piano and bang out some bad blues to briefly entertain the Monday night crowd (2 sheep farmers, a Canadian couple, a group of B&B cyclists from Middlesbrough, Stanley, the barman, a sock salesman, 2 cats and a sheep. Much later I stagger to my tent and collapse comatose into a damp sleeping bag. The constant low hum of the Tan Hill diesel generator helped lull me to sleep.

20.06.07
Despite the grim forecast, it didn’t actually rain until evening, which just goes to show that the BBC doesn’t know what it’s talking about, with their satellite techno wizardry and computer models. It was a cold clammy and thick mist that I woke up to, I gulped down 2 mugs of sweet milky coffee then broke camp quickly, anxious to be on my way to get some circulation to my limbs. Today’s walk should have been pleasant, dropping down into lovely Swaledale then up and over the long traverse of Great Shunner Fell to Hawes, however my pesky left ankle decided that enjoyment was definitely off the menu. I was ok going up, but descending caused a stabbing pain (ouch!) which became a big concern. This predicament was made worse by the many miles of slab paving which were unyielding and punishing on anything tender or sore. By the time I arrived in Hawes I had developed a Ministry Of Silly Walks walk and headed straight to the chemist for double strength Ibuprofen. That should do the trick. Under dark threatening clouds I decided to try for a B & B, it would give me chance to assess the damage to that pesky ankle and make use of more tea and coffee making facilities. After hobbling around for half an hour we checked into the dog and pongy yomper friendly Crown Hotel where, ignoring health and safety concerns (don't try this at home) I converted the wardrobe into a drying room by putting the radiator in it and draped a wet tent from the light fitting and my sleeping bag from the curtain rail, Stanley jumped up onto the bed and went to sleep. We must have been breaking numerous house rules but I was paying £40 for this and I just didn’t care. Close inspection of my ankle revealed nothing significant apart from slight swelling so I dosed myself up, bandaged my ankle and put dryish socks on. I took the opportunity to check Stanley’s many feet which were shaping up well apart from a small pink patch on his near front side, which we’d have to keep an eye on. We both limped off to the fish & chip shop then hobbled up to have a look at Gayle Beck, this normally gentle bubbling stream was a raging white torrent, we watched this spectacle for a while before retiring for an early night.

21.06.07
At breakfast I spoke to another sock salesman (a sock salesman stays in most B&B’s every night) and wolfed down a half decent Full English. Had a poor night’s sleep on account of traffic and plumbing noises, but at least I was out of the rain which had shuttered down all night. I was out by 0900 and wandered through Hawes stock up on provisions. Today’s route was straight forward enough over the Hills to Horton In Ribblesdale, my ankle protested but we batted on regardless. The weather improved as we climbed up over Dodd Fell and joined the Cam High Roman Road where the Pennine and Dales Way join forces for a few miles. We met quite a few yompers today, including a group of redoubtable elderly ladies gamely tackling the Dales Way, they were using a sherpa baggage service whereby rucksacks are moved to the next evening’s halt in the back of a van. Neat. The weather became almost pleasant in the afternoon and I was treated to a nice view of a distant Ribblehead Viaduct. The last miles into Horton were over stoney tracks which caused some ankle pain as the effects of the Ibuprofen wore off. Oh dear, I was becoming a junkie. The Campsite in Horton looked unappealing on account of it’s proximity to the Road and a clump of a dozen tents that looked like they were from a school trip for disruptive children. I went to the 3 Peaks Café to sign the Pennine Way book and have tea and buns where I decided to carry on in search of a wild campsite. 90 minutes later and the tent was up just upstream from Hull Pot, which is basically a waterfall that disappears into a great open chasm in the ground, a classic limestone feature. Despite the midges and thistles it was a grand spot to spend the night. We bathed weary feet in the stream and I started cooking but had to retire quickly when a cold heavy rain shower suddenly swept in, obscuring the nearby summit of Pen-y-ghent and adding far too much water to the cheesy noodles I was trying to make for tea.

22.06.07
Up early at 0700. Interestingly the waterfall had been turned off in the night. I wandered up river and soon discovered a hole in the riverbed where the water gurgled away out of sight. After rain this small hole must soon becomes overwhelmed and the lucky water gets to carry on to the far more exciting prospect of cascading into Hull Pot 50 yards down stream. Stanley’s not the least bit interested in this geological phenomenon as he’s busy eyeballing a sheep that’s sniffing around our breakfast. Shoo! Had coffee, cheese and a flap jack, broke camp and made the short ascent of Pen-y-ghent. The summit was already busy with yompers who seemed to be walking up the path from Horton in their hundreds. It must be standing room only by dinnertime. The early sunshine soon gave way to grey, sullen clouds as we went up and down Fountains Fell. We later arrived at Malham Tarn after conquering some of the biggest field stiles in the world. They were literally 10 feet high over monster drystone walls with a narrow, sprung gate atop just to make the whole process a near death experience. Stanley would take a run at it, get about half way where I would be in place to propel him to the summit where he would perch by the gate, I would climb up behind him making sure I didn’t allow the instability of the rucksack and lack of hand holds cause a catastrophic shift in the centre of gravity to send me head first over the stile and down the steep drop on the other side to drown in the waiting sea of mud. No doubt these stiles have been installed by local farmers who’ll have hours of endless fun watching hapless yompers come a cropper. In a rare moment of sunshine we paddled in the outflow stream of Malham Tarn near where it disappears into the ground (there’s a lot of this sort of thing going on around here). Malham Cove looked impressive, where an RSPB lookout was busy with telescoped twitchers peering at a Peregrine Falcon (or so they said) A well worn track, busy with shuffling parties of pensioners and mutant children lead to Malham where, after searching in vain for a grocery shop I had a hot chocolate and lots of scones in one of Malham’s many tea rooms. I sat outside although the sky was becoming ominously black. Most of the day trippers were back in their cars and buses and rushing home to safety. I was hoping to get down to Gargrave that afternoon, a six mile walk described as ‘a delightful riverside amble’. I thought this description may be a tad optimistic and so it turned out to be. Half an hour after setting off the weather had turned evil, I thought I was used to the rain by now, but the next four hours of deluge were beyond comprehension. All attempts at route finding were abandoned and we soon got lost in pathless fields of water. I managed to destroy my overtrousers on barbed wire but it was no great loss as they had long since given up trying to keep the water out. In places poor Stanley had to swim as I waded up to my knees, the sky had darkened to the point of needing a torch but no way was I going to stop to open my rucksack. Eventually, after much frustration and wrong turns we dripped into Gargrave’s first B & B pub to be told that dogs were not allowed. After some discussion with some grumpy Gargravians it turns out that dogs weren’t welcome anywhere. This was a low, low moment, I felt gutted and even contemplated catching a bus home, instead we trudged to the campsite. 21years ago accommodation in Gargrave was at my Uncle Keith’s ‘Trepak Cottage’ he now, rather sensibly lives down the Dordogne. Oh how I wish I was there, in fact how I wish I was anywhere apart from here. The campsite was in an industrial estate, the proprietor seems to be Gargrave’s Mr. Big, being the local haulage contractor, property developer, cattle feed merchant, milkman and shop keeper. The rain stopped long enough for me to get the tent up and was pleased that the sleeping bag was still sort of dry. I bought a new gas bottle and some dog food from Mr Big then walked into Gargrave for a pint and a look at an overflowing canal where we met three yompers walking the length of the Leeds/Liverpool Canal. Why? Found 25p, all was well with the world again.

23.06.07
By the morning, after a reasonable night’s sleep the weather had brightened up and so had my spirits. I was pleased we hadn’t B & B’d and instead contributed £3.50 to Mr.Big’s millions. I was by now used to all the various daily pains and despite some blister and ankle discomfort I was able to stride forth like a grizzled long distance yomper. Today’s walk follows a squiggly route taking in a nice stretch of the canal (swans and boats) and many miles across fields over stiles and through dozens of barky dog farmyards. The path kept inexplicably plunging it’s way through the muddiest fields and tangles of spiky undergrowth. The Yorkshire Dales were being replaced by the gritty West Yorkshire Pennines. As the afternoon arrived, so did the rain and with a sigh of resignation I once again prepared for another soaking. 21 years ago I spent the night at Pondon Hall but today, rather unhelpfully, it was shut. Standing outside in the rain I cursed a bit then trudged on, I was soaked but felt strong. I wanted to phone my Mum & Dad who may come and meet me the next day, but my phone was long dead. Before climbing onto the bleak Withins Moor I called at the last farmhouse to see if I could use their phone. A kindly chap let me use his phone F.O.C. The milk of human kindness had once again touched me. With a renewed spring in my limpy step and a rendezvous arranged with my parents at 1200 the following day we walked across a misty rain lashed moor to Top Withins. We camped besides the atmospheric ruins of the farmhouse made world famous by the Bronte novel Wuthering Heights. The rain eventually stopped so I pretended to be Heathcliff for a while but Cathy was nowhere to be seen, in fact there was nobody anywhere, I felt like I was the only person for miles around. I made tea surrounded by midges, a hungry dog and swirling mist. I was pleased to be camping in such a grand spot and for the first time I felt we were on the home stretch.

24.06.07
Spookily, I heard strange voices in the night but a grey chilly morning revealed nothing untoward, the mad axeman had spared me again. I awoke early to throbbing foot, squawking birds and bleating sheep. After a thick, syrupy coffee we quickly broke camp and were on our way by 0800. The weather was in a foul mood and whilst it wasn’t actually raining it felt bitterly cold with a perishing wind chilling me to the marrow through damp clothing. The surrounding countryside was equally malignant as we trudged off the soaking grey moor and past a series of soaking grey reservoirs. Two walkers with pained expressions staggered past with oversized rucksacks and their sights set on Kirk Yetholm, poor souls. After a few route finding errors things brightened up and we dropped down to the A646 road west of Hebden Bridge to the welcome sight of Mum, Dad and lunch. Great timing, it was 1200 on the dot. After eating a lot of sandwiches and bananas we went through my kit to separate a collection of unsavoury, surplus items including Stanley’s panniers that we would no longer require. In exchange I was lent Mum’s telephone, Dad’s overtrousers and hat, hoping they wouldn’t be needed and yet knowing they would. Before parting company we devised a cunning plan, they would do a bit of shopping for me and then drive up to the White House on the A58 above Littleborough and walk north along the Pennine Way to meet me. With a lighter rucksack and dog we made good progress until I got stuck on the wrong side of a barbed wire fence just under Stoodley Pike, with a display of rubbish athleticism I fell over it and cut my shin. Ouch, I then had to lean back over to grab a reluctant Stanley which made my rucksack and upper body fall back from where we’d just come from with my head ending up in a puddle. Oh the joys of the great outdoors, eh? Upon finding the path again we went to have a close look at Stoodley Pike, crudely yet impressively constructed from enormous gritstone blocks, it stands like a brooding dark master over the brooding dark landscape it towers over. Later we met up with Mum &Dad along some rather featureless and flat reservoir access tracks. Whilst offering easy, fast walking on good firm ground, it’s as dull as dishwater. Later, in the car park of the White House pub I bid farewell to Mum and Dad. It’s been great having a support party for the day, and they’d be on hand to provide transport from Edale in a few day’s time. Blimey, I really am getting towards the end of walk! We trudged on for another mile to Blackstone Edge where I put the tent up on the east facing slopes amongst the rocks and out of the buffeting winds. Absurdly, water was difficult to find as the sandy ground around here is not very good at holding water, but I eventually found enough to fill the kettle from a natural rock pool scoured into one of the summit boulders. Neat. I lay in my sleeping bag and looked out over the M62, I could see the masts at Pole Moor, Scapegoat Hill and distant Emley Moor. Just 34 miles to go, marvellous.

25.06.07
By morning the mist was down and it felt as if it ought to be raining (I needn't have worried, it soon would be) We were off by 0900 and after crossing the M62 by way of a very dramatic footbridge we got onto the familiar territory of the Marsden Moor Estate, suddenly it’s like walking through my own back garden (well, not really, but you know what I mean). It was Sunday morning and very soon we were meeting other walkers, including a handful who were Scotland bound. Good luck to each and every one of you, you’re going to need it! Two sets of riders on motorbikes went vrooming past, scattering sheep, walkers and wildlife before them. They quickly vanish in a cloud of fumes and ripped up clods of peat, hitherto undisturbed for 8,000 years. These prats are both ignorant lawbreakers and selfish vandals. They need a stick in their spokes then wrestling to the ground and beaten soundly by angry walkers out for a quiet Sunday yomp. C'mon guys let's do it! Ho hum it started to rain and by the time we walked past Wessenden Head Reservoir the weather had turned ugly yet again. I stopped for a bacon and tomato tea cake at the bacon and tomato tea cake van at the Isle Of Skye on the A635. (The Isle Of Skye was the name of a pub that stood hereabouts, the pub's long gone but it's name lives on) Enjoying my butty and oversized mug of yomper's tea, the bacon and tomato tea cake van man and his wife kept bringing sausages for Stanley who gratefully wolfed down their kind offerings. Before leaving this wonderful place of refreshment, I was told that a lot more rain was on it's way. Bring it on! It was Black Hill next, which to my suprise had turned green! I've been up this hill dozens of times and the extensive summit plateau was always reassuringly black, peaty and dangerous. Today a pavement and greenness have tamed this once terrifying place. Despite appreciating the efforts of conservationists I was a little disappointed. We dropped down to Crowden in the un-lovely Longdendale valley and carried on past Reaps Maggot Farm, again I was disappointed to see it had become a swanky and desireable gaff for rich people. What's going on? I found a camping spot just under the Bleaklow plateau near the top of Torside Clough. Despite the now persistant rain I had a good view looking north from where I had come. Tomorrow I would march triumphantly over Bleaklow and Kinder Scout to Edale just 14miles away.

26.06.07
Oh dear! I'd been prepared for foul weather and thought I could still complete the walk, after all I was now a hard bitten, grizzled and weather beaten old man of the hills. Weeping skies and foul weather were bread and butter to me, you kinda get to enjoy it in a perverse sort of way. As Mr A Wainwright said it was 'character forming' and no one is going to argue with him. However, nothing prepared me for the tempest that was about to unleash it's fury. We turned in after a cheesy tuna and pasta bowlfull of tea and I snuggled into a dampish sleeping bag. I felt happy enough as I listened to radio 4 and read my dog-eared book, but by 2200 the wind was blowing a hooley, the rain was becoming persistantly torrential. There followed a sleepless night spent huddling in a tent which was being pulled out of shape in a very alarming way. The tent had performed admirably up to now, but the wind was now causing it's entire structure to fail, the flysheet and inner sheet were being forced together (anybody whose been camping knows what that means) important things I preferred to stay dry were very quickly becoming wet. Stanley looked worried as I kept having to go out to re-peg the flysheet. At one point I had to place rocks from a nearby streambed to stop the tent becoming airborne. Looking down into Torside Clough, the river had become a frightening blurr of raging white spray and appeared to be flowing uphill! By first light I had some important decisions to make. I was clearly in a bit of a dilemma. In all my years of yomping and camping in the hills of Britain and beyond I don't think I'd ever experienced such a prolonged and violent summer storm. I tuned in to the weather forecasts, but as ever they were vague and unhelpful. Outside a ferocious wind was blowing in sheets of rain from the south. Thankfully I was in a sheltered spot, had I been exposed to the full force of this storm, my tent, myself, Stanley and all my stuff would have gone. A sobering thought. By dinner time I finally decided to do something, but I wasn't sure what. Heading south across Bleaklow, famously difficult to navigate over, even in good weather was out of the question especially without dry clothing and little food. Sitting it out here was out of the question, again, everything wet and little food. Maybe abandon the tent and head back into Crowden where there is a big youth hostel but little else, maybe I could take shelter there. I phoned my Dad who very kindly offered to drive out to collect me, and deliver me back the following day. (memories of 21 years ago) Whilst this option was both tempting and sensible, it would have broken the spirit and momentum of the walk. Do you know what I mean? In a fit of decisiveness and in record quick time I got the tent down and somehow crammed the whole dripping mess into a bulging rucksack stuffed with more dripping mess, it weighed a ton I can tell you. We struggled back into Crowden into the teeth of a fiercesome rain filled wind, the path had become a fast flowing river. An hour later, wading up past Torside Reservoir we were suprised to see four walkers heading the other way. 'Turned out nice again?'. We headed up to the youth hostel across a road full of swishing traffic and past an overflowing reservoir conduit where some worried looking Environment Agency men in fluorescent jackets were standing around scratching heads. The Youth Hostel was big, modern, comfortable and locked. I stood there and swore at it. It was another bad moment, how could they do this to me? I suddenly felt cold and wretched, I'd come all this way only to end up destitute and bedraggled in stupid Crowden which has neither shop, pub, B & B or maggot farm. It was one hell of a place to decide to abandon the Pennine Way. I cursed Crowden, the Pennine Way, the weather, camping, the YHA and my hurting ankle. Ring Dad for rescue or find the campsite?
An hour later an odd shaped tent stood alone in a puddle and I was sheltering under the eaves of the campsite wash house, my sleeping bag spinning merrily around in a drier and I was drinking whisky. It was only through a large dose of good fortune that the campsite was open, had a shop, had a drier and a shelter. Whilst sitting with a brew watching the ever growing puddles the four walkers I'd seen two hours earlier suddenly appeared. After much peeling off of waterproofs it turned out to be a southbound PW yomper with his wife, daughter and friend who had met up with him for his final day's march to Edale. They'd got up Torside Clough and realised it couldn't be done. A big shame because he'd run out of holidays (yes, this was a holiday) his wife was taking him home that evening. He produced a large bottle of whisky and we spent several hours drinking it and munching biscuits. It turns out we'd met briefly near Byness then spent the next two weeks leap frogging each other and somehow not meeting. They were all very jolly despite the disappointment of abandonment. He certainly liked a drink, staying in pubs each night, he would never pass a boozer without calling in for a few and he never had less than a full bottle of Scotch in his bag. After they'd gone I was happily sloshed, the rain was still raining but over the next couple of hours it began to ease off, I drank a lot of coffee and hugged the kettle to keep warm. By the time I climbed into my mangled, oddly shaped tent it was just drizzling. What a day, but I was still in business. Tomorrow I would have another go at completing this ridiculous walk.

27.06.07
There's probably nowhere more bleak and unwelcoming than Longdendale in bad weather. I got up to a grey cold morning, Longdendale was bleak and unwelcoming even though it wasn't raining (although it looked as if it should have been) I must have slept well as I'd been totally exhausted after the previous day's carry on. We were off by 0730 and moved fast to keep warm, the wind soon dried out wet clothes, I was mightily grateful for Dad's hat. Bleaklow would have been confusing and dangerous in the previous day's terrifying weather on account of it's pathless, deeply indented peat-walled channels, any poor souls up here yesterday would have been in trouble. Despite this, I quietly hoped that Bleaklow would not become 'tamed' like Black Hill had been. After phoning Mum& Dad with our E.T.A in Edale we crossed the A57 Snake Road and onto Kinder Scout. Miles of pavement were not doing much for my throbbing ankle, I would have preferred a yielding soft bog to put my feet in, but would probably have sunk without trace. Up onto Kinder plateau and some extensive views over the Cheshire Plain. We rested at Kinder Downfall and shared digestive bicuits with a sheep. Suddenly there were crowds of people, popular place up here. The last few miles into Edale were painfull but amazingly the sun made a welcome appearance. Where the hell have you been for the last two weeks? First job, go for a pint at the Old Nags Head, but the real ale pub containing steaming, bearded men-of-the-mountains I was hoping for didn't exist, instead there was a pretend pub full of people out for a drive, a spot of lunch and a Kenco Coffee. For heaven's sake! Beerless and disappointed we went to find a patch of grass where I had a celebratory brew up. Stanley sensing we'd reached the end stretched, yawned and curled up to sleep, I removed boots, socks and sat contentedly. We'd done it! I had thought about maybe camping in Edale then walking the two days home by retracing my steps to Wessenden Head then walking down the Colne Valley which would have been a splendid way to conclude the trip. I decided against it though, I'd had enough, Stanley's had enough, my Ankle's had enough, but it looked as if the rain hadn't. Let's go home. Mum and Dad soon arrived and after a right nice cup o' tea I enjoyed the luxury of a comfy seat and a ride in a motor car.

Post yomp thoughts:
Well, just as 21 years ago, the weather stole the show, the rain was frequent, lavish and torrential. In fact it proved to be the wettest June ever and just think, if I'd gone in April I wouldn't have needed a waterproof. (I won't dwell on that one) I wasn't suprised that it caused all the widespread flooding in South Yorkshire and beyond. The Pennines, already saturated, had lost the will to absorb yet more water and the rain just poured straight into the rivers then through the front doors of inappropriately built houses.
I past a few 'no dogs allowed' signs, it's annoying that the doggy policy along the route is so confusing. I bravely ignored them all and prepared to argue the toss if challanged, thankfully I wasn't. I suppose it's up to individual landowners whether or not dogs are 'allowed'. It's a shame if people are deterred from long distance walking with their dogs.
Stanley was brilliant, a true companion, even though he occasionally sneaked into the tent to shake mud and water over everything. Bad boy. He never complained, was usually soaked, kept me amused and kept the bog-eyed monsters at bay.
I was thoroughly disheartened when Crowden YH was shut, I came within a gnat's whisker of abandonment. Youth hostels certainly can't be relied on to provide shelter for yompers in peril. All I wanted to do was sit and quietly drip in their refectory, feeding loose change into the hot drinks and snack machine.
The campsites we stayed in were memorable, some for the wrong reasons (£12 at bellingham) I was pleased to have backpacked and even more pleased to find two dog friendly B & B's when required. The walk took about two and a half weeks including two unscheduled non-walking days (Alston and Crowden) which works out roughly the same pace as 21 years ago. I tried to follow the route accurately although I did 'cheat' by following the railway line for 2 miles into Alston although I ain't going to lose any sleep over it.
Finally, I must thank my Mum and Dad for their encouragement, support, sympathy plus the set of excellent Pennine Way maps they got me for Christmas. 21 years and 2 months on and they still gave up their time to drive across several counties with sandwiches in search of their wandering son.

SOME INTERSTING FACTS AND FIGURES ON THE PENNINE WAY.
268 miles long.
32,000 feet of ascent.
287 gates.
249 wooden stiles.
183 stone stiles
204 bridges.
On the route or within 2 miles of it are:
87 shops.
23 cafes or tea rooms.
49 public telephones.
17 information centres.
110 pubs.
Approximately 1200 yompers complete the walk in a single journey each year, the number who give up along the way or vanish without trace will never be known.

Happy yomping,

Matthew Shaw 21.01.08

unclegrumpy483@hotmail.co.uk